


The Journalist: The Tagline

by lettalady



Series: The Journalist [10]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 19:38:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6127900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettalady/pseuds/lettalady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sixth installment in the prequel series for The Journalist. <br/>The Tagline shows further progress between the pair, and a promise finally fulfilled by our journalist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Journalist: The Tagline

 

 

**T** he dream is a good one, of home and of people you haven’t seen in far too long. If you ever do take some time away from work and go on vacation again that’s where you’ll go. A short visit to see the people that raised you, just long enough to get your fill, not so long as to tempt you back. London is your home now. You’ve a job that pays well, friendships developing, and… Earthquakes?

Managing to eek one eye open, you lift your head from where it had come to rest atop your folded arms. You’re at your desk and one of your coworkers is jostling your swivel chair. “Ungh. Hey.” It takes you a second of blinking in the fluorescent lighting to be able to look at him without squinting.

“Hey y’self. Thought y’were leaving early today?”

They’d been at you all day to figure out why you were ducking out early. Known for being the one to close the building, it hadn’t taken long for the entire office to start buzzing about your discussion with Sam this morning. Eavesdroppers, the lot of them. Where you want to go, who you want to meet – that’s your business and yours alone. Well – and _his_.

You glance towards the nearby window and your heart leaps. The sun has started to set! “Oh, fuck!” You launch yourself up out of your chair, your coworker still holding onto the seatback. There goes changing. There goes being early. You check the watch on your wrist and your heart does further somersaults.

You’re _late_.

A few quick steps to snag your purse from the floor by your desk, you don’t even bother with listening to the curious murmurings of your coworker. Three steps towards the lift you realize your phone isn’t in your pocket and turnabout, retrieving it from the desktop next to your keyboard before spinning again and dashing towards the stairs. Screw the lift. You’re late – you can run faster than that thing can move on the pulleys.

Fingers fumbling, you unlock your phone and see that you’ve missed a text. And two calls.

_We’re still on for meeting at Charley’s? – TH_

Still he signs every text. Like you’re a ninny that doesn’t already have his number etched onto your heart – cause you have, not that you’ve admitted as much to him. Your body has gone into overdrive to the point you’re pretty sure you’re going to throw up as soon as you stop moving.

Do you dial him or listen to the voicemails first? The first is probably him letting you know where he is, or maybe wondering where you are and making sure you remember the address. If the second is him calling and leaving a message after waiting for you. If he thinks that you’ve stood him up…

Your stomach clenches as you hit the last landing. You snag the railing to help swing yourself around without losing too much momentum. _Nananananananana-Batman!_ The tune from your childhood creeps up out of nowhere. You hardly slow down as you sprint past the security desk of the building, barely hearing the surprised exclamation of the guard on duty. You give Reed a small wave: _No closing the place down with you tonight! So very late for a date!_

Ok, not a date – not as such. You’d made Tom promise you that. Not a date. No pressure. Just two friends meeting up for drinks. Something casual where you could finally have an interaction with him that had nothing to do with work.

Oh but you’d wanted to clean up a bit first!

It’s only after you reach the stairs to start your descent into the tube station that you realize that running isn’t really going to help matters. Dressed for a day at your desk, you’re only adding to the fly-aways and your overall disheveled appearance. Skipping listening to the messages, you opt for the brave option of dialing him and hoping he’ll pick up.

He might have called it a loss and gone home.

You might be rushing for nothing.

Multitasking, you swipe your card to get through the turnstile while dialing him, then take a steadying breath as you listen to the tone and hurry onward. Hard to hear over the bustle of people surrounding you, you let him manage a hello before speaking. “Tom! Oh! Oh I’m so sorry. I’m on my way. Long story. Or short story, maybe. You’ll laugh. I hope. Please, please tell me you’re still there.”

“Not, actually.”

Well. That news makes you trip over thin air, bringing a sudden halt to your forward progress. The kid behind you mutters something unkind, unable to swerve to avoid bumping into you. You stumble another step and then allow the roots dragging at your feet to stick you to the spot, becoming a median in the path of all the other travelers. That doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Tom isn’t there. He isn’t waiting in the corner booth with a half drunk beer in his hands. You won’t walk in to find him grinning and waving for you to join him on those slightly under stuffed leather cushions he described to you over the phone last week. You won’t be able to laugh together over drinks, over your inability to arrive on time to a thing unless it is something related to work.

“Oh.” It’s all you can manage in reply as you shake yourself free of the spot where you’d stumbled to a halt. Though there isn’t much point now you continue across the platform, following the flow of the crowd as they surge forward – travelers impatient to get to their destination. “Well, um,” you struggle with finding the right thing to say. “I’m sorry, Tom. So sorry. I didn’t – I don’t want you to think I’ve done this on purpose. That’s not who I am.”

Keeping the device pressed to your ear as you ramble through apologies, you find the closest available seat and settle into it, feeling depleted. People are jostling into your knees despite your best attempts at being small. Oh to be able to melt into the scenery. Oh how you wish you could.

Tom is talking. He hadn’t hung up on you after your weak apology. You’re so lost within your own head that you’re not focusing on his rapid fire delivery. Focus, woman. Focus. “…keeping you. Shouldn’t say figured. Hoped. Hoped is a better… But – that was the…. Tell me you didn’t just get on that train.”

Is he laughing?

Body and brain still catching up after the mad rush to the tube, you echo his words. “I didn’t just get on that train?” 

He’s laughing. Laughing! “I just got _off_ that train. Well, the one coming from the opposite direction.”

“What?” You emit a squeak.

“Ehm… ok. Ok. This is, this is ok. Stay on that train. Stay on it until… Sorry! Pardon. Sorry! Sorry. Trying not to run people over and get to the other platform in time to… Erm… stay on it for five stops and then – well, I’ll be a few minutes behind. But will you wait for me there?” He sounds out of breath, just as you had been a few moments before. And – giddy? He titters out a laugh higher pitched than the last that had escaped him.

Will you wait for him there, he asks. He’s not ranting about people standing other people up – unless he’s saving that to do in person. You purse your lips for a moment, frowning at the man seated across from you. He seems to sense your attention and turns to look. You’re too focused on Tom’s request to bother with looking away. “That’s not part of the directions you gave me to get to Charley’s.”

Again, he laughs. “Well, no. Unless – you still want to go? I just thought – maybe something quieter might be nice.”

He still wants to see you. And wants to go somewhere quieter for the not-date-date. That’s… good. Very good, because you still want to see him. Five stops and then you’ll disembark and wait for him as he requested. “Where, then?”

“My place? I’ve drinks. Water if you’d rather. Food, too – if you’re hungry.” He pauses for a beat, then ventures on when you don’t immediately answer. “You there?”

“Uh-huh.” You switch from frowning at the man across from you to being unable to stop from smiling. Some evening you’re having. “I’m, I’m here. Determined to get me to see that _secret garden_ of yours, aren’t you?”

The automated message announcing the incoming train comes as he replies, “You did promise. _And_ basically stood me up for drinks at Charley’s. Not that I wouldn’t love going back to prove that I wasn’t lying about meeting someone, but… Is that a yes?”

Still smiling, you shake your head slowly. Drinks at his place can still be casual. He is right about all his assertions, and you do want to visit with him before he leaves again – ever the jet setter. “Alright, Tom. I’ll see you soon.”

Five stops is long enough to start and settle several arguments with yourself over the wisdom of what you’re doing. The time for that was months ago, if you’re being honest with yourself. You’re emotionally invested now even if you’re still somewhat in denial over that fact. Standing there on the platform, only half watching the other commuters as they move around you, something finally occurs to you:

Tom had been en route to your office.

You’ve no hope of suppressing your smile now. Who the hell cares about your bedraggled appearance? Flyaways? Eh. The wrinkled state of your slacks and tuxedo-top blouse – both from work and from the accidental nap? Wrinkles? What wrinkles?

Tom is easy to spot as he disembarks, a head above the others commuters in his immediate vicinity. He reaches up to grip the frames of his glasses, adjusting them as he searches the platform. You fidget where you stand and give him a little wave, only the latter meant to attract his attention. The moment he spots you his face lights up.

_Gorgeous, sunshine filled_ … _How does he do that?_

“Hey.” You offer up a greeting once he’s close enough. The scent of him washes over you as he steps within your personal space. Despite just having sat in a bar for however long and then commuting to find you he smells like freshly laundered clothes and just a hint of musky cologne. He’s clearly made an effort for your not-date.

_Actor armor? What actor armor?_

“Hello.” He returns the greeting as he wraps his arms around you for the briefest of moments, giving you a light squeeze. You probably smell like a mixture of work, and sweat, and sleep – but he doesn’t appear bothered. “C’mon. Don’t want to miss the train.” His hand drags a bit as he steps away, a lingering touch that drifts from your shoulder blade, down your arm, the last point of contact being your wrist.

Falling into step beside him, you try to focus on appearing calm. You’re finally going to see his place, as you’d promised those many weeks ago. No more dodging the invite. No more excuses. It’s the next step in this _whatever this is_ that exists between you.

He is absolutely beaming as the pair of you make your way up the short walk to the front of his house. He’s proud of this place, and even from the outside looking in you can see that he’s right to be proud. It suits him. There’s a short pause on the porch as he unlocks the door with a set of jangling keys, and then with one last glance over his shoulder – a thrilling smile cast in your direction – he opens the door and leads the way inside.

There’s a fine line between curiosity over his choice of décor and being overly distracted with absorbing every detail and ignoring your host. Just as on the sidewalk, you’re hit with the feeling that this is more than a place where Tom eats, sleeps, and stores his stuff, more than just a house – this is _home_. He might travel frequently but this is where he’s anchored.

But you’re doing it again – ignoring the other person in the room. When you look at Tom those blue eyes are focused on you, accompanied by a contented smile. You hesitate for a fraction of a second before returning the smile, “What?”

“Do you like it?”

“What I’ve seen so far, yea.”

His eyebrows tick up slightly, “Right. Helps to show you around, doesn’t it? Just happy that you’re here. We can start with the kitchen – and a drink if you like? – and then move on from there. Did you say you’d eaten? No I suppose not, if you fell asleep at work.” He pauses and shakes his head, “Or, no… the garden first. Prove its existence. Then we’ll deal with food and the like.”

As he leads you around he keeps glancing from the various items pointed out, to you, as though to check for your approval. You end up standing before a massive wall of books, reading the titles lazily as you sip at your beer.

Tom is studying the wall as well, his forehead wrinkled in thought. “I didn’t intend to accumulate so many. It just sort of – happened.”

“You’ve got space, for now.” You turn, putting your back to the bookcases in favor of looking out at the rest of the room. “The shelves in here plus those in the office.” You lean to bump into him with your shoulder, “Just need to take care with adding more bookshelves or you won’t be able to set up your ping-pong table.” As it is he has it folded up and nearly hidden from view. Makes sense, with his intention of leaving again soon. You take another swallow of your half-drunk beer and take a step away from Tom to move towards the center of the room. “Of course you could just switch to museum type shelves – lever them from side to side and store your collections that way to save on floor space. Keep them by theme, or author, or genre…” You glance back to find Tom standing rigid, still facing the shelves of many books. “Not that you don’t already have them organized.”

As you watch Tom gives himself a little shake and turns, “Hmm? Oh. Well, sort of.” He clears his throat, tilting his head to the left slightly, “I promised you food, didn’t I?”

“No,” you laugh, “We only agreed to drinks. The change in venue doesn’t change that. Honestly – it’s probably a good thing we didn’t go to Charley’s. You might’ve tried to show off while ordering and end up ordering in a different language like Henners used to do…” You shake your head, immediately angry with yourself for mentioning it. Way to tarnish the moment by bringing up Henry.

“Henners?”

You ignore Tom’s query, taking another long draw from the rapidly dwindling drink before replying. “It all worked out. You finally got me to see your garden – and your home. Honestly it really does suit you, Tom. Every last inch.”

“Centimeter.” He corrects you, tilting the beer bottle to point the mouth of the glass container in your direction.

You purse your lips before letting out a laugh, “Oh no. Don’t start that with me, Monsieur. It’ll never end.”

Tom grins at you, eyes sparkling. “Honestly? That’s sort of what I’m counting on.”


End file.
